


I'm Not Colorblind, You're Colorblind

by LittleBuddy



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: BJ is California Cobalt in case you wondered, Gen, Hawkeye talks about colors, IDK it came to me in an alcohol dream, implied hawk/beej, paint sampler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:01:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27767152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleBuddy/pseuds/LittleBuddy
Summary: "..the fizzy feeling at the end of my nerves right afterward, when I couldn’t do anything but yell. But here's the thing - the blazing violence of it goes softer when familiar hands grasp you and suddenly you know you’re safe." A study in color.
Relationships: B. J. Hunnicutt/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	I'm Not Colorblind, You're Colorblind

**Author's Note:**

> pov? Hawkeye's explaining what the colors on a paint sampler look like to the writer who wrote his robe in as "purple." (I'm only halfway kidding.)

**RED**

Mostly, it’s overwhelming. It seems to stain everyone and everything. No matter how hard you scrub, it clings to the skin. Hell, it leaks into my dreams until I’m waking myself up sobbing, rubbing my eyes until I see those little fiery star-bursts, you know? Or - or it’s the feeling that rises behind my ribs when I watch these old men sending boys to the front without a second thought. That’s not to say it’s always negative. Sometimes it masquerades as something gentler, like the cherry-shaped mark you leave behind after a kiss. Or... a sea of my friends in wine colored clothing. Maybe the flush I feel creeping up my neck when he brushes against my side, you know? Definitely that. Like, the feeling I get every time I see that ridiculous faded henley. It’s, uh.. the soft brush of my robe after a good shower. But it’s violent, too - the deafening shatter when the still crashed to the ground, for instance. Or the scorching flash of heat from a stove exploding in my face, the fizzy feeling at the end of my nerves right afterward, when I couldn’t do anything but yell. But here’s the thing - the blazing violence of it goes softer when familiar hands grasp you and suddenly you know you’re safe. Then it’s not so much molten as it is kinda sunset colored around the edges. That’s not so bad, you know? If it was always that shade, I think I could crawl inside it and stay there for a long, long time. 

**YELLOW**

This one’s hard. Some time ago, I might’ve said it was a Boston accent in a hawaiin shirt, maybe the smell of an orange when you first peel it open. Not anymore. I think most people think of it happily, like the way you feel after you first kiss or the flutter in your stomach when you give someone a bouquet of flowers. I don’t find that quite fair, to be honest. First off, it’s hard to look at. It’s glaring - like, it’s like the feeling you get when you see things you don’t wanna see. Contrasts, you know? Secondly, it’s tart. I mean, tart like a wild plum that isn’t quite ripe. Or you could say sour - like not knowing the last time you saw someone would be the last. Missing them by a minute. That’s what it’s like. Or maybe dust that’s not allowed time to settle before someone’s barging through it again. It’s not flower chains and smiles. It’s just too much, ya know? It’s just a lot.

**GREEN**

Easy. It’s reaching into a pair of pants you haven’t worn in a while and finding money you forgot you had. It’s like bluffing through a poker game knowing you’re about to lose but somehow coming out on top. When you stand in sand and crinkle your toes up in it - that’s what it’s like. You’d think I’d say something like “it’s the army,” right? Well. I for one don’t want the army to have any of my colors, so I refuse to let them have this one. Fatigues and tents are one thing, but have you ever smelled a handful of dirt? Had an olive in a martini? How about hearing the leaves fall in the autumn? Crunched through a blanket of pine needles in the forest or thrown your head back in laughter? It’s the exact opposite of the army - of this whole damn war. You know, if I had one sentence to describe it, I’d say it looks like living.

**WHITE**

Like seafoam that lands on you but trickles away to nothing. The click-click-click of the needle when it reaches the end of the vinyl. I think there’s a true correlation between it and good. Like, we bring it in to the OR every time we put on scrubs, but it’s elusive. It doesn’t always stay pure - sometimes it’s diluted. It’s like… it’s like getting momentarily blinded by light reflecting off a glass of water. We don’t see a lot of this one here, I don’t think. I saw it in my dad a lot, back home. Sometimes I see when a soldier lets his guard down or asks me to help him. It’s like someone reading out loud to a child or a friend. It looks the way wind sounds whistling over an open bottle. Does that make sense? Maybe not. That’s okay. I think if we could pin it down, it wouldn’t be what it is.

**BLACK**

I’m gonna have to go with ‘spirit crushing.’ Extreme, I know, but that’s the idea. It’s the color of the place my heart sank to when my friend died on the operating table. Midnight, but on a night without a moon or even stars. Even the good examples of this one end up being bad - like, it’s the feeling you get at the back of your skull when you put a piece of chocolate in your mouth and let it melt. While you’re trying to enjoy it, all you hear is the timer that’s started telling you how long it’s going to be before you get another treat like this. (A hint - longer than four years under Truman.) The feeling of finality when you do all you can for a wounded soldier - spend your Christmas trying to give his family the gift of a later death date - and it doesn’t matter, and you lie, and it’s the right thing to do. Up is down. War is peace. You know - I get this ache sometimes, after spending the night with a nurse, and it’s like that. Eating but not getting full, if that makes sense. The only positive description for it that I can think of is the feeling of bliss when you drink enough to forget. I’m sure there’s a lot of inkblot wranglers out there who’d say that’s actually not a positive thing, but what do they know? It’s good enough for me. Regardless, this is one you see a lot of over here.

**GREY**

Imagine if you will, a piece of paper telling you that you get to put your hopes and dreams and hard work into another man’s war. Imagine you start out cynical and skeptical, skating through without blinking an eye or shedding a tear, but one day you look at yourself in the mirror and the man you see has rounded edges from all the times he’s let the war smooth him out.  
Imagine the space in your head you retreat to when you suppress the emotions that boil just under the surface. Imagine the hole in your gut every time you kiss someone and can’t remember their name, or the burn down your throat after the umpteenth drink you down before lunch.  
Imagine a place devoid of purpose, a room full of memories you’re trying to avoid, and the door’s locked, and the one window doesn’t open, and you’re being asked over and over and over why you’re there, but you don’t know the answer except that it’s on the other side of the door, and if you could just go there, you could answer the question - but you can’t go there until you answer the question, so you’re stuck in a loop with memories that keep tapping you on the shoulder while you keep trying to shrug them off.  
Think ‘bleak,’ and ‘cold.’ Think ‘weary’.

**BLUE**

Ahh, this one. Okay, so one summer when I was a boy, I went to visit my cousins a ways inland. It was hot hot - I mean, we spent a lot of time laying on the porch with the dogs. My uncle got off early one day, right? - and he took us to this creek where he liked to fish. The water looked - I can’t explain it, I just needed to be in it right then, you know? Before I even pulled my shoes off, I plunged my arms in up to my elbows - and it was just this immediate relief. Like nothing had ever felt cooler or more refreshing than that water, right then. I think that’s my best example. I dunno. Maybe, like - okay, when you wake up gently in the morning. You know - the sun’s shining, but it’s not screaming at you. Breakfast’s cooking in the kitchen, coffee’s ready to be poured into my favorite ceramic mug. That’s kind of a softer version, though, somewhere between cobalt and violet. And then I know someone who’s the embodiment of, say, California cobalt. We’re talking about a playful shade, though - like dye on Easter eggs, or icing on a cake. Bright, vibrant. The sky behind the lighthouse first thing in the morning, you know? Heh. At this point, I’m really just describing my favorite color. It’s nice, though, right? Maybe we can paint the house that color. I think he’d like that. I’d like that - just live in that color forever. Yeah. I could do that.

**Author's Note:**

> If anybody wants to know what I was drinking when I wrote this, try a sprite with spiced rum and a dollop of whipping cream stirred, over ice. ;)


End file.
